The ghosts we hide (Winter Soldier x OC)

Sixty three

The only noise is of boots hitting the floor as we're led down endless grey corridors. The man next to me grips my bicep mercilessly, his fingers digging so far into my flesh that I'm sure he's cutting off the circulation.

Eventually we reach another metal room, much like the one we had been in when the team of men came to collect us, only this one is bigger.

We're dumped unceremoniously onto the floor, side by side. I slouch forwards, the impact of having my legs kicked out from under me sending a painful jolt through my entire body, reverberating around my skull. A boot finds my chest, kicking me up into a kneeling position.

Glancing sideways, I catch a snapshot of Peter, head bowed in the same position before a hand slaps my face.

"Eyes forward!"

We sit like that long enough for my legs to lose feeling. I wish my brain would follow suit.

Instead it runs through every torture technique I've seen Hydra use, ranking them mentally in suitability in some small hope of being prepared for what comes next.

I'm going to lose my tongue.

Staring at the stained ground by my knees, I try and think about a strategy, but all I'm registering is a dull panic that could overflow at any second. Every muscle in my body is tense to the point of aching, too ready to spring into action at a moments notice.

After what feels like an age of watching the monotonous concrete floor, the door at the front of the room is heaved open.

I don't dare look up.

Bile rises dangerously in my throat, squeezing around the heart that's founds it's new home there.

Footsteps echo almost deafeningly about the mostly empty space, approaching our hunched figures at a torturously leisurely pace, building the suspense. Eventually two black boots come into view, the toe caps polished to the point of perfection.

I count my heartbeats as the silence stretches, hands fisted behind my back.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

My head whips to the side, brain taking a second to register the burning handprint across my cheek. Swallowing, I return my face to its original position, knowing if I look up he'll only hit me again.

I hear a deep chuckle, then a hand yanks my hair, forcing me to meet two malicious brown eyes.

"Look at what the cat dragged in."

H is gleeful, a smile stretching unnaturally across his scarred face, as if the muscles are too out of practise with the expression. He looks exactly the same as he did months ago, except now there's an exhilarated vengeance in his eyes.

My stomach twists painfully.

"Why don't you fill us in, 184, on where you've been all this time, hmm?"

My mouth stays clamped shut, eyes straight ahead. The back of my head is burning from the wound being disturbed, but H's grip never wavers.

No matter how I choose to answer that question, I'm going to get hit again.

And I do.

It's another slap, unusual for H. Punching is more his thing.

The sound reverberates around the metal walls, bouncing backwards and forwards as if I've been hit a hundred times. I breathe through my nose, fighting the urge to look sideways at Peter.